


Out of Your Mind

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Song Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Song Lyrics, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock's not sure what to do about John - then he hears this song...





	Out of Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I heard this song in the car a few hours ago and it seemed perfect for an inexpert Sherlock's POV. If you're not familiar with it, I'd suggest giving it a listen before reading.  
> Too impatient to get it Beta'd. <3  
> Lyrics to Crazy by Icehouse can be found [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/icehouse/crazy.html)  
> Listen to the song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TSDjivoy-0)

Sherlock had known that John was in love with him for months. It was at the Pool; the moment that bound them together forever. It was the look on John’s face when he’d stepped out of the cubicle, weighed down with explosives. It was the way John jumped on Moriarty, willing to give up his own life for Sherlock. Most of all, it was John’s trust in him at what they thought was the end; the look they had shared that was full of fear, faith – and regret. As Sherlock had mused on that later, he realised the regret was the words left unsaid, moments lost in their joint sacrifice.

More than anyone in his life, John has accepted Sherlock. John certainly complained, and made demands, but he never asked Sherlock to change who he was. He saw past the brusque exterior and the childish behaviour, understanding the underlying reason. It was the boredom that plagued Sherlock’s unoccupied mind, the anxiety and depression linked so closely to his intellectual function. It had taken Sherlock a long time to realise that the nagging to eat, the insistence on some level of cleanliness in the kitchen and the efforts to smooth his interactions with Lestrade were protective measures. He saw what Sherlock refused to acknowledge – that his body needed care; he was as susceptible to mould spores as anyone else; Lestrade would be more helpful if he was less abrasive. He saw that Sherlock would never take care of himself properly, and so had settled into the role for which he was born – caretaker.

Once he’d deduced John’s emotional attachment, Sherlock had marvelled at the control John exhibited over himself. He so rarely showed anything beyond friendship; had the scene at the pool not happened, it was likely Sherlock would never have known how John felt. When he was tired, though, his eyes softened and lingered just a little longer than usual; he often leaned against Sherlock as they waited at a scene, or in the cab on the way home. Little moments that could be written off on their own. John was always a little tense the next day, however; slightly on edge until he’d seen that Sherlock’s demenour hadn’t changed. It wasn’t difficult to note the pattern; the main problem was what to do about it.

Sherlock had never felt an attraction to another person in any emotional or physical way; his sexual encounters had been perfunctory at best, but the closeness had been cloying, the slide of so much skin against his own body sickening. He had, however imagined such interactions with John, and the idea was not as terrible as he might have thought. Throughout the course of their work (and his experiments) John had seen and touched most of Sherlock’s body; Sherlock knew his hands were dry and warm, the fingers calloused but gentle. John’s touch was always professional, and now Sherlock found himself wondering what a more affectionate touch might feel like. Would it be as gentle, or would his hands be bolder, the strokes firmer? Perhaps the roughness of his hands extended to other parts of his body. The desire to explore John’s body was a new sensation, a fact which did not lessen the pull towards John.

Despite all the evidence of his own mind, and his increasing conviction in his own desire for a change in their relationship, Sherlock was hesitant. He knew his own shortcomings, and part of him wondered why John, who also knew him so intimately, would want to extend that intimacy into the physical. John, who was personable, likeable, _nice_ , who could have a partner without any effort at all. Why would he choose to bind himself even more closely to Sherlock when he could have a normal relationship instead? A relationship without poisoned tea, murderous cabbies, the sullen silences Sherlock knew he was prone to. The children he’d never have if he was with Sherlock.

 

As Sherlock thought about this, ignoring Anderson’s snipe about his redundancy at the scene, a song blared from a neighbouring flat. Sherlock had never had a lot of time for popular music; this was loud, though, blasting through his mind palace, demanding attention. He sighed in annoyance, before some of the lyrics caught in his mind. Frowning, he stopped attempting to block the sound and concentrated. The lyrics were…relevant. Sherlock whipped out his phone, turning his back on Anderson as he typed in a line of the song, blinking rapidly as the entire lyrics appeared on his screen. _This could have been written for John and me_ , he thought in astonishment. Not the whole song, but the chorus and the second verse in particular so precisely matched his recent emotional experience it was beyond coincidence. _How could anyone know about this situation?_ Sherlock thought. It was as though the lyricist had crawled into his mind.

John had noticed his distraction, which was admittedly out of character considering they had just completed a case, but Sherlock couldn’t help it. As soon as they arrived home he flopped down on the couch, staring at the wall. He ate what John offered without protest and barely grunted when John spoke to him before bed.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“Fine, John.”

“You seem a little different tonight.”

Sherlock dragged his gaze from the small burn on the wall and looked at John. They could never…he sighed. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. John shrugged, though Sherlock noticed the hurt flit across his face as his offer was rebuffed.

“Goodnight then.” John said.

“Goodnight, John.”

After a while (an hour? Five?) Sherlock stood, picking up his violin. He tuned it as he thought, fingers twisting the pegs without conscious effort. He started and abandoned a number of pieces before finally realising there was only one song that would do. From memory, he began to play the music from Crazy, the song he’d heard this afternoon and had transcribed for violin in his head during the evening. The lyrics sounded in his head as he played, the word whispering past his lips as he poured his soul into the music. It was better than Rachmaninoff, he noted with satisfaction. After several renditions, Sherlock sighed, placing his instrument back in its case, caressing the worn wood with affection.

“I love that song.” John’s voice came from the doorway.

Sherlock spun, startled at the noise. “You know it?” he asked. The look on John’s face said so much more than his words. For some reason it was Mycroft’s voice in Sherlock’s head when the words echoed: _He knows_. Sherlock swallowed.

“Crazy, by Icehouse.” John replied. “Played it constantly when it was released.” Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice. John went on, “I never really identified with it as strongly until I came back from Afghanistan, though. A broken down old soldier, PTSD and a bullet wound? ‘Well you’ve gotta be crazy, baby, to want a guy like me’ suddenly meant a whole lot more.” He gave a wry laugh, eyes never leaving Sherlock.

“That’s…that line resonated with me, too.” Sherlock said carefully.

John walked forward, cane long gone now, spine straight and with a confidence he’d gained back since falling in with Sherlock. He smiled at Sherlock, stopping close enough to touch, should either of them reach out. “I think it resonates with a lot of people. But the rest of the song, it’s about marvelling that there is somebody who wants you. It’s not about unrequited love.” John stepped in even closer, chest almost touching Sherlock’s. “It’s about realising that someone loves you, and not understanding why.” He smiled again at Sherlock, a soft, affectionate look that was usually guarded and shuttered away. Now, though, the restraints were gone, and Sherlock could see the extent of John’s affection.

“Oh,” he whispered, “You too?” He wasn’t sure if he meant, ‘You love me too’, or ‘You don’t understand why I love you either’, or perhaps both. Because seeing it so openly on John’s face was still astounding despite his deductions.

“Me too.” John confirmed, reaching up and pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s. It was soft and chaste, and Sherlock sighed, eyes closing as he relaxed into John.

“I guess we’re both a little crazy.” Sherlock murmured.

“Out of our minds.” John replied, a smile dancing over his lips.


End file.
